


we've come to a gentleman's agreement (unfortunately, none of us are gentlemen)

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Alternate Universe - Noir, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/M, First Kiss, Gunplay, Kissing, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Queer Themes, Relationship Negotiation, Smoking, Surprises, Threesome - F/M/M, Trope Subversion, black sheep characters finding each other, established partnership seeks third member, forget about it jake it's midnight city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 02:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Detective Jane Crocker has a lot of people come to her looking for help.Having two members of the infamous Midnight Crew doing it is more than a bit of a surprise.





	we've come to a gentleman's agreement (unfortunately, none of us are gentlemen)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snailman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailman/gifts).



Your elbows are propped up on your desk, fingers steepled together in front of your mouth and you would swear that Spades Slick just tried to make an effort to seduce you into doing something for him and his Crew. Droog manages to not have an expression at all, but still seems to give off an aura of embarrassment from where he's standing just behind Slick. Not in the way a grown man should be for his friend, but more in the way you imagine some blonde middle-class hausfrau would be if her tolerated child peed itself in public, possibly in front of something worse than her enemies - her friends. 

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that, Mr Spades?" you say, fumbling for time as you try to keep your expression wooden. You can feel your eyebrow wanting to climb in amazement, and you don't want them to know how badly Slick's thrown you. You're more used to meeting them at the end of a weapon, although they _have_ been in your office before. They'd trashed it, quite badly, in an effort to get you to back off a case that would have eventually led you to them. The trashing had just led you to them so much sooner. 

You're Jane Crocker, erstwhile heiress of the Crocker Corporation and much happier in your men's dress slacks and suspenders than you'd ever been in any of the dainty little dresses that your grandmother wants desperately to see you in, despite how badly they suited you even when you _were_ willing to play the corporate game. You've always had a build that most would call sturdy to your face, and fat behind your back, but over the last few years you've built up more than just a little muscle. Boxing and general all around roughhousing will do that for a gal. You can run a suspect to a dead halt over a ten block chase, you can shoot the eye from a playing card with a hot pistol and you've become exactly the kind of person your grandmother would despise to the end of her coiffed, genteel life. _Good_.

Your father is a little confused but he's happy that you're happy. And you are; happy, that is. You've got this little office right here, it's got JANE CROCKER PRIVATE DETECTIVE on the door in gold letters, a solid wooden desk and a filing cabinet full of cases either solved or on the way to getting there. You've got a safe to keep your important things in, and a couch to nap on - or sleep on. You've been lucky and the few grazes you've gotten have been easily enough treated under your own power. On the whole, you think you've been doing jolly well for yourself. 

And you hope your grandmother chokes while she's eating her own liver when she listens to her spies about what you've been doing.

"I _said_ -" Slick snarls, and you think that he's about to lunge over the barrier of your desk to wind up in your damn lap - and what he's gonna do when he gets there is anyone's guess - but Droog catches him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him back. Not his jacket, of course. He could have slipped out of that, but his shirt at least was buttoned at the front. Droog holds him high enough for a moment that you know Slick's feet are dangling toe-touch to the ground, but then the taller man drops him companion back to the floor again. As nimble as a cat, Slick lands on his feet squarely and dusts himself off, hands flicking his sleeves into place as he snarls sideways up at the other carapacian. Droog ignores him, and you hear the grinding scratch of a flywheel as the other man lights his cigarette, long fingers almost seductively poised close to his mouth as he exhales smoke. "I'm here to offer you a deal, Crocker."

Slick plants an elbow on your desk, leaning over it like he's thinking about jumping across it again. If this is a proposal, it's the oddest one you've encountered yet. And you've had a few clients that were about as cracked as a thin pot, but this is beyond even that. There's some part of you that you don't want to acknowledge, that even hopes he could be serious. You've got eyes. You're not blind. And you're a red-blooded woman, with certain needs and desires that you mostly ignore and hope they have the decency to go away. Slick and Droog are the most attractive men that you come into regular acquaintance with, even if that acquaintance usually means violence.

It's not like that's _unattractive_ either.

"You know, the last time we spoke, you had Deuce blow up my car," you say, as mildly as you can manage. That's pretty fucking mild, considering your training and the corporate sharks you honed your teeth on when you were nothing but a wee lass. Slick'll put a knife in you, but that's not as bad as a few other things you've faced. "Why on earth would I agree to a proposition like this?" You tap your fingers on the desk, and look over Slick's shoulder to speak to Droog like his boss isn't even there. You can see exactly how much Slick doesn't like that, and it fuels a petty ember in your heart. "I liked that car; _and_ the explosion put a hole in my nice suit."

Droog winces minutely; you're pretty sure he really hated that suit. Something about how someone your coloring should never wear navy blue. You've gone to classic black lately. Hides the blood better. The white collared shirts you prefer to wear underneath do an excellent job of showing every drop, sad to say. 

"You know why you're gonna say yes?" Slick stabs his finger in your face like he wishes it was one of his nasty little blades, and you keep your eyes on his empty-seeming ones. Carapacians are hard to read, especially Dersites, but it's not impossible. And Slick wears all his emotions loud and proud on his sleeve, like some kinda badge of honour. It doesn't really matter what kind of emotions they are, because most of them lead to stabbing in the end. For Slick at least, you're not experienced enough to make a call on other kinds of Dersites. There's a possibility that Slick is just damaged somehow. "You're gonna say yes, because you're a _soft fuckin' touch_ , Crocker, and you don't enjoy seeing people dying. Especially not the rubes." He steps back, adjusts his tie with a jerk of his hand and Droog exhales smoke over the top of his shorter partner's hat like a dragon. "Besides, we might see our way to throwing you a bone or two, if you do a good job."

"You asked me to join you at a ball," you remind him, because you're not sure what that has to do with this. But you're getting a heavy feeling in your stomach, like you're going to take the job. Damn, damn, _damn_. Damn them both to hell, but especially damn Slick for being right about you. "And here I thought you were starting to get sweet on me, Slick. Don't go breakin' my heart by offering a lonely dame a date, and then turn around to tell her it's just business."

Slick's face screws up with fury, but something happens that you don't expect.

Droog laughs.

A low hoarse soft noise, more like a rasping choke than a chuckle but you know what amusement sounds like. Slick whirls, and you barely have a chance to see the knife before it has fallen to lie on your carpeted floor, with a soft sound you wouldn't even call a thump. Slick has his hand raised in a fist, and Droog has caught him by the wrist, to keep him from stabbing him in...the eye, maybe? You're sure Slick was aiming for his face.

"Don't do that," Droog says in an even monotone, as though he's used to it and drops Slick's hand. You suppose he must be. The two of them go through a little tidying routine that reminds you inexplicably of cats after they've done something stupid but are pretending that the incident was nothing more than a figment of imagination on behalf of reality, straightening jackets, adjusting their ties. Slick slides the tip of his shoe under the knife and flips it up; catches it by the hilt in his hand and it disappears somewhere around his person again. Under his jacket, you think, but you're not exactly sure and it could really have gone just about anywhere, knowing Slick. You'd really like to know how he does that. "As Slick was saying, miss Crocker. We have need of a woman of your talents and specialities."

"I better not wind up doing this outta the goodness of my heart, Droog, I'm expecting a pay cheque when this is all over," you warn, and click your pen while you drag your notebook to yourself with your other hand. Flick to a new page, and get ready to take notes. You can see Droog eyeing your notebook without trying to seem like he is, and you smile mirthlessly. "Don't worry about my little book, bucko. No one can read my cipher but me. And if you steal this, I really will find a way to drop you beribboned but mostly naked into the Felt's lap. It won't do you any good, but it _will_ piss me off." You clear your throat, and nod at the chairs across from you. "You two boys take a seat, and let's talk business, shall we?"

They drop ungratefully into the two chairs you keep for clients in front of your desk and you get ready to listen, and think. Apparently Doc Scratch has something violent yet subtle planned for the charity ball these two mooks want you to go to; the outcome doesn't suit their own plans, so they're bringing you in. They need you, so they can get inside without getting kicked out. Or not even getting in the door in the first place, considering that they look like the gangsters they are. You probably even have a bona fide invite, in the name of Jane Crocker. Somehow you don't think that's who you should go as; you don't want grandmama thinking that you've turned over an old leaf.

Which is how, much to Slick's disgust and Droog's silent amusement, is how you wind up with Slick standing on a dressmaker's platform as you tack one of your old dresses into something that'll fit the shorter carapacian. Droog was too tall to be put into anything you'd worn, but Slick wasn't that much shorter than you. Among your other 'womanly arts' that your grandmother had assisted you to acquire, sewing and dressmaking had actually proven to be useful. So had baking. Vamping? Not really your forte. You don't fit the traditional image of a seductive vamp, all glitz and glamour - too much shoulder. The chest you've got for sure, but - any rate, you're not really worried about yourself just now. Luckily carapacians don't really have what you would call in a human, secondary sex characteristics nor does anyone expect them to.

"So have you thought about what you're going to be called? It's not like you can stroll in there expecting me to still call you Spades and not have us thrown out immediately," you say, pleating fabric between the backs of his shoulderblades and considering where you should move the straps to. You'd made sure to pick a dress without much detailing on the bodice; it'd probably be easier just to go and buy a dress in some ways, but then someone would notice and _somebody_ would sure want to know why a member of the Midnight Crew was buying a dress. Or why you were. You're not exactly in the dress buying business any more, because you'd just about rather break your leg falling over a curb. "I mean, if you called yourself something like Dazzling Broad or Winsome Damsel, I think people might believe it...and it would help hide your identity as much as anything else, better than something too much like your _real_ name."

The man under your hands has gone stiff and still with outrage. You take your hands away carefully, wondering what it was that you said that made him react like that. You look up at Droog and raise an eyebrow slightly, before he just shakes his head at you. You've made a mash of things somehow, and you're not really sure how. 

"Gotta stay S - S," Spades says in a furious voice, and he doesn't try to stab you. That makes you think that this is more serious than anything else he could have done would be. "Anything - doesn't matter what - but it _has_ to be S 'n S!"

"So what do you want then," you snap, because he's being silly and stupid, and stupid he might be but silly isn't something you'd thought Slick was capable of being. Not like this. Something like a child, clinging to a teddy. You hear Droog inhaling next to you, but you forge on anyway, your temper rolling ahead with the bit in its teeth and as unlikely to stop as a runaway horse with a burr under its saddle. You've always had the most terrible temper and you throw your next set of words at him with the intent to wound. "Scurrilous Slut? Slovenly Slattern?"

He whirls on you before you can blink, never mind the tight and clinging dress he has pinned on precariously around his body and you find yourself with a knifepoint to the hollow underneath your chin, and a blazingly angry man who's actually very dangerous staring you in the eye like he's about to murder you on the spot. Ah. You probably shouldn't have forgotten he was so dangerous, no matter how silly it feels to be putting Spades Slick in what's meant to be a seducing kind of dress.

"I should kill you for that," he breathes, and you can feel the point of the knife dig in. Almost enough to cut your skin. You can feel saliva gathering in your mouth inexorably, and fight the urge to swallow. It's surprising how little you think of how often you need to swallow, until you can't. "You're lucky we need you, Crocker, but say something like that again - and to _hell_ with what I need and I'll just do what I _want_."

"She understands, Slick, c'mon," Droog sighs out and comes around to put his hand on Slick's shoulder. You can feel the knife almost tremble, and then he drops his hand and you can breathe again. You catch your breath, swallow, and restrain the urge to check and see if you've been cut. If you have, nothing's to be done about it and you'd rather drip blood all over this shirt than admit Slick has you shaken.

New shirts are easier to come by than your willingness to admit a weakness in front of Spades Slick.

"Shining Star," you say, and gesture with your finger for him to turn around again. He glares at you and you give him the eye right back. Once he's turned around, you start your pinning and folding over again. He'll look better than he deserves, you vow. You're not going to go to the ball with a wren on your arm, he's going to catch eyes and no one ever is going to suspect that it's Spade Slick with Jane Crocker escorting him. Long as he keeps his mouth shut most of the time, you don't see how you'll get caught. "Or do y' think something like Sizzling Songster or Swanky Sweetheart would be better?"

You work in silence for a few moments after that, and then he clears his throat.

"Swanky Sweetheart sounds fine."

"Right, so I'll put that name on the RSVP," you say as mildly as you can manage and focus on not butchering this designer dress too badly as you prepare to stitch it to fit Slick's frame better than your own. You don't know why they think the initials are so important, everyone knows carapacians change names switch and turn about when they like. Usually to cover a change of their occupation, as though they were a new person just because they had a new _job_. Odd fellas. "Pop it in the mail tomorrow."

" _Good_ ," Slick snarls through gritted fangs, and suffers to let you continue marking and pinning how you're going to reduce the dress down about four sizes to fit him. It should be fine. You've done similar things before, and it doesn't need to go through a close inspection. And it's only for one night. It'll be fine.

Everything's going to be fine.

When you walk into the charity ball, Spades Slick is appearing as Swanky Sweetheart and you're under the name Hass English. Some sort of distaff cousin or other, but one that was definitely not going to come to the ball or intending to. You'd just nabbed his invitation from his bachelor townhouse, and donned your best moustache and tuxedo. Of course you have a tuxedo. You look bloody good in it too, if you do say so yourself. And Slick looks...surprising good as the Sweetheart. 

Red dresses might still give you a hint of heebie jeebies, but for a Dersite, red was the only acceptable colour according to Slick. He might be lying, but you didn't want to argue. The dress flatters his slender build, and you've managed to make the strong set of his shoulders a little less prominent. The flash of obsidian thigh through the high slit in the skirt definitely helps, and you don't know where Droog dug up a pair of heels like that but they definitely do good things for his...calves. Like the few other female ascribed carapacians in the crowd tonight, you've helped him wrap and pin a turban to match the dress to cover the sleek shape of his bare skull. Black, with a sleekly glittering diamond pin to keep it in place and red silk flowers embroidered along the edges.

God help you, but he looks attractive (more so than usual, and you bury that tail end of a thought immediately). You don't know whether it's the dress, or if it's something else but somehow Droog has managed to talk him into a sultry sort of perfume and a sullen red lipstick that makes him look as unlike Spades Slick as you could think he could possibly look. He's got a clutch tucked under his arm that has a pistol in it, and you've got two knives at your ankles. Luckily you're used to that kind of holster, so no one's picked up that your walk is a little heavy. The two of you sweep into the ball, and get ready for whatever happens next.

There's time for a glass of champagne each, that you both barely sip from, before the place erupts in gunfire. The members of the Felt aren't exactly expecting anyone to return fire, but you're waiting for them, and you do. Slick tosses you the pistol from his handbag and you throw him the knives as you come up from the crouch you'd dropped to as soon as you heard the doors slam open. You watch Biscuits go down with a spin, blood erupting from his shoulder and you know Droog is using the silenced rifle with the professional scope you've lent to him with a certain amount of effect. He's tucked up in one of the galleries overlooking the dance floor; one of the reasons that the Felt had targeted this ball was one, the amount of jewels on display and two, the fact that the damn building was basically a giant trap.

There are screaming rich folks everywhere, the men blubbering just as hard as the ladies half the time. Snivelling bunch 'a pansies, you hear Slick sneer beneath his breath next to you, before his knife speaks for him again on the body on one of the Felt's hired goons. Before anyone can get a proper good look at you or Slick, you manage to drive the couple of actual Felt that had shown up off with a mix of bullets, blades and fisticuffs. You're bleeding from your hairline, and you know your moustache is hanging askew - but Slick hardly looks better. At least the red dress hides the blood, to a certain extent. 

You break out of the ballroom before the hired goons or the cops can get there once you've driven off the green interlopers, and all that's left to do is hope no one connects Hass English to Jane Crocker, private detective and (runaway) Heiress to the Crocker fortune. Or the Swanky Sweetheart to Spades fucking Slick. Droog joins you on the run down the street and the three of you jink to the left and down an alleyway like you're sharing the same brain. There are sirens wailing, giving you a reason to run a little faster and Slick curses, bobbles and then suddenly becomes about two inches shorter. Not that he was tall to begin with, but the heels had given him some fake height. Before he'd kicked them off just now like Cinderella running from the Prince, you note to yourself with amusement, and keep running.

Your little ramshackle trio pile into the car that Droog has left waiting for you a block away from all the hullabaloo, and Slick falls on top of you in the backseat with a grunt, pulling the door shut behind him. Droog's slipped into the front seat like it belongs to him, and stowed the long shape of the rifle casually down the passenger side seat. You push Slick off you and sit up, both of you managing to scramble to an upright position. With a one two three to brace yourself, you rip the moustache off and let out a low hiss before feeling at your upper lip gently. Spirit gum is effective, but it hurts like a bastard if you don't take it off properly. You're sure you look less silly with a red patch under your nose than you would with the elaborately curled moustache of your disguise half on and half off, hanging out over your mouth.

"You're bleeding," Droog says, staring into the driver's mirror to meet your eyes as you look up. You catch a glimpse of yourself in it, and make a face before going to wipe the blood back into your hair. 

"Just a scratch; probably some masonry chipped off from a bullet and winged me," you say dismissively. It hurts, but not like a proper wound would. Just stings. You'll be fine as soon as you can slap a plaster on it. Slick lets out a laugh, and extravagantly throws himself back into the seat, knees far apart and taking up a lot of room for a man of his stature. The dress rides up even higher, exposing more of the shell of his inner thigh than you've ever seen before. Including earlier in the night. There's a cough from the front seat and your eyes snap back to Droog, who's giving you what you would call a _look_. "What," you snap at him, taking off your hat to put it on the seat next to you, "if you've got something to say, spit it out."

"You handled yourself alright out there, Crocker."

"Of course I did. What do you think I am, some kinda hysterical broad?" you sniff disdainfully as if you weren't pleased with Droog's assessment, and lean forward to look at yourself in the mirror, lifting the flyaway curls of your hair a little to see the cut hidden half into your hairline. You were right, it's not that big or bad. It's just bled like it was worse than it was, and left you with drying carmine down one side of your face. "Either of you two fellas have a handkerchief, or something like that?"

They're the bad guys, you remind yourself. Maybe they're not the Felt or Lord English, Snowman, or the Batterwitch, but they're still mobsters and therefore still _bad guys_. You've helped them out this once, to keep the Felt from stealing and kidnapping that dame they apparently had an eye on, and to keep them from ruining the charity ball but. They're bad guys. You have to remember that.

And you also have to stop ogling Slick's thigh! What is _wrong_ with you tonight.

Too much time alone.

Maybe you should take Dirk up on his next invitation to go out to a bar. Do your drinking in company for once. Maybe even find some to take home. Maybe that will help you get over whatever this is, this weak female foolishness. Besides, why would they be interested in you? You're pretty certain the only thing they're interested in is each other - and Slick, maybe, has some sort of burning hatred for Snowman that masquerades as desire. You're probably not even on their radar. What are you, really? A rich girl playing at being a detective, pretending to be something you're not.

"Just give over, Crocker," Slick sighs and unwinds the turban from around his head, giving his whole body a little shake as he gets it off. Like he's relaxing somehow, and you think that dress is riding even _higher_ despite the evident impossibility. Look, if you were going to ogle anyone, couldn't it have been Droog? Please? With a snap of comprehension, you realise that it's both of them that you want and you silently scream in horror to yourself. It's a good thing you've had so much experience in keeping your emotions to yourself, because otherwise you just might have screamed out loud. It's only your anger you've always had trouble keeping to yourself, like a good girl should be able to ( _fuck_ being a god damn _good girl_ ).

What happens next surprises you so much that you don't move to dodge in time. 

Slick spits on some part of the turban, then comes up at you with it like a babushka with an intent to clean her grubby grandchild. Much like the grandchild, you don't get out of the way in time and then the fingers digging into your shoulder discourage you from flinching away. The silken touch of the turban rubs over your cheek and up past the corner of your eye to your forehead, rubbing more gently than you would have expected. Especially from a man like Slick.

"Damn fleshies, show blood like paper," he mutters, as though that's the only reason he's doing it. To make sure you all don't get caught. Or at least if you do get pulled over, you're not sitting there with blood caked down the side of your face. He wipes and tidies, and then his hand slows. You can't keep your eyes off him, and he seems to be - you think - he's looking at you. 

There's definitely what you would call a moment.

The car comes to a halt without warning, and the two of you are thrown sideways into the backs of the front seats. Slick curses and slaps out at Droog but the car's stopped and parked all the time. And the moment is over. You hate Droog blindingly for a moment, and your hand clenches into a fist on your thigh. How could he do that? Was he jealous or something? Or was he just looking out for his boss as usual?

"Just kiss her already, you schmiel," Droog drawls, and he turns around in the driver's seat to look at you both. You suddenly can feel your cheeks flame, like they haven't since you were sixteen. Slick seems to be in much the same boat, and you didn't think carapacians could even blush. At least not Dersites; you think a Prospitian might show some pink colour in those alabaster cheeks. "Ain't that what you do when you drop a lady off at her place after a date?"

"A date-" you start to say dumbfounded, and Slick shoves his hand into Droog's face and pushes him away. The ghastly choking rattle that passes as Droog's laugh is exhaled from his mouth despite the rough push, and he folds back into the front seat like a concertina. One long-fingered hand extends lazily, waving like he's saying come on, get on with it. The kissing, is what you think he means; you didn't think your face could get redder but you were very wrong. "This was a _date?_ "

"I think we shoulda thrown in dinner too, but Slick was pretty adamant you wouldn't want something so square-"

"Shut _your fucking face_ -"

"But we did get all dressed up." The gesturing hand that Droog still has stuck out motions at Slick in his dress, then down at himself in what you have to admit is a very nice suit. It's not a tuxedo, but it's better, in a way you know how to recognise thanks to your father and his devoted attention to masculine fashions, than his usual daily attire. Which is saying something for the always dashing dresser that he is. "So are you impressed, Crocker?"

"I will murder you in your sleep, Droog, see if I don't," Slick promises with a glare that personally you wouldn't like to be on the other end of. The other Crew member just cracks a rare smile, barely an uptilt of one corner of his mouth but recognisably a smile. 

"You ain't done it yet."

"That is going to _change_ , tonight," he splutters, and Droog makes a show of checking his watch. Cocking his arm so his sleeve pulls back to show the shining timepiece on his wrist. Damn. You're not sure even your father has a watch that nice; guess crime really does pay. "I'm going to slide a shiv between your ribs while you're snoozin', ya _nancin' prettyboy fuck_."

"Clock's ticking, Spades. Better get to it, or I'm gonna jump in first."

"The hell you will," Slick spits at him like poison, then turns back to face you. He heaves out a breath and runs his hand over the bare arch of his skull, carapace gleaming in the light of the street lamp. It's a dark night, even if it's barely midnight by now. The ball had started early and the whole thing with the Felt hadn't taken that long to be over with, since you weren't trying to fight them to a bloody end. Just a momentary standstill, long enough for the long and tardy arm of the Law to swing into action. "So what do you say about it, Crocker?"

"If you're going to ask me for a kiss, Spades," you say as calmly as you can manage, but you can feel something close to hysteria bubbling up on the inside. Is this actually happening? You've had enough _japes_ pulled on you before, and you're all for a good joke in its place - hoohoo, aren't you just! - but you don't think joking around with this kind of stuff is what you'd call a good prank. If this is a joke, you might just wind the night out properly bloody after all. "I think you oughta be able to use my first name."

"Sheba's got a point," Droog says while Slick gapes, and you hear the rasp of a lighter than a sighing inhale. The sweet scent of clove cigarettes fills the car, and he rolls the window down to direct the smoke out into the night while Slick just keeps looking at you. "You _do_ know what her name is, don't you, Slick?"

"Course I do, don't be so fuckin' stupid," he growls, and turns back towards you. He swallows visibly, and you see the tip of his tongue flick across his pointed teeth. It's kind of...cute, that he's so flustered. You can't lie to yourself, it's kind of compounded by the fact that apparently it's because of you. And if you're taking Droog's comments the right way then they're both interested in you. At the same time, and apparently ok with things working out like that.

Taking them up on it would horrify your grandmother to the point of an early grave. Even just one of them, let alone the pair. Carapacian men, and Dersites at that. Distinctly shady characters, as she would say with that little sneer that barely said anything and yet meant so much in the implication. But that isn't why you want to - it'd be a terrible reason to start any kind of relationship, just going into it to get one over on your overbearing matriarchal tyrant. You're kind of intrigued by the fact that apparently you're the dame that they could both agree on bringing in. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't think they were both attractive. Can this work? Probably not; you're a detective. They're still mobsters. But you can see where this goes; nothing in life is set in stone. And it's just a kiss. Maybe a couple of kisses. It doesn't need to mean much.

But you think maybe - maybe - maybe it could mean a lot. For the three of you.

"May I kiss you, Jane?" he growls out finally and it's stupidly formal, but you _appreciate_ the idea that you're someone that it's worth asking formally. Or maybe just someone threatening enough that trying without permission would be a bad idea. You like both those things, and you think it bodes well for the future. They might be gangsters but at least they're a little gentlemanly. You're kind of a sucker for it; they're rough around the edges but civil when it counted. 

"I'd like that," you say with a dry mouth, and he nods sharply once like he needs to confirm it to himself that you said yes before he leans in. You do the same, to meet him halfway, both of you moving slowly. The first impression you have of his mouth is that his lips are dry and cool, and then you both kind of mutually bring a hand up to cradle the back of each other's heads. His fingers slide through your mussed curls, while you stroke your thumb curiously across the smooth arch of his skull. His skin feels tough, shell-like to your fingertips; not surprising you suppose, but you've never had a reason to get this intimately acquainted with a carapacian before.

It's not like you've never been kissed, you've had suitors. Beaus. This isn't like kissing any one of those that came before. Spades' mouth tastes just a lick like the champagne you'd been drinking, and his pointed teeth are an interesting new facet to explore with your tongue. There's a strange dry smell around him, like gunpowder and old books, nothing like what you're used to. He makes a rough sound into your mouth and his other hand grips at your waist as he leans deeper into the kiss until he's just about on your lap, that red dress hiked up like the worst kind of sultry siren. It's exploratory and urgent, and you could almost forget Droog sitting in the front seat if you couldn't still smell the scent of cloves.

After a strangely timeless (and very pleasant) moment, the two of you break apart eventually. Your heart's beating a little faster (a lot faster; there's a fair amount of blood going south), and you've gained a bruise on your lower lip from where Spades nipped it. Maybe he drew blood, but you'd have to get to a mirror to be sure. He slides back to his side of the seat with a little bit of a flummoxed expression on his face, as much as you can read something like that on a face like his, and you're glad that it's not just one of you that's feeling the effects of that kiss. Gee willikers, and other exclamations of that nature!

"I'll walk you to your front door, miss Crocker," Droog says, appearing at your door like a ghost. You can't help but startle a little bit because you hadn't actually noticed him get out and walk around the car at all. Slick swears loudly, so you don't think he noticed either. Makes you feel better, that you weren't the only one so involved in the kiss that you let your guard down.

"Fuck's sake, Droog! What were you doing, just waiting for us to be done?"

"Maybe." He reaches down, bending a little to offer you his hand to give you some help in getting out of the car. "Jane?"

"Don't think this chivalry act is going to win you a prize, pal," you warn, but you take his hand and let him pull you up and out. Your legs are feeling just a little shaky, that's all. It's nothing. It's not like you didn't just let Spades Slick kiss you stupid in the backseat of what's probably a stolen automobile out the front of the building that you've got your office in. Hmm. At least it's that; hopefully that means they don't know where you hang your hat the other nights of the week.

Somehow you doubt it; Droog's always struck you as a man who knows things. Important things other people would rather he didn't know.

"I'm sure if Slick was fit to be seen in public, he'd gladly be the one to escort you to your door," Droog purrs, and you hear Spades squawk an indignant 'Hey!' from the back seat. The little lighting there is makes Diamonds' white eyes almost glow, and you wonder what he thinks he's seeing. You're reminded that he might be a snappy dresser, but he's also just about infuriatingly competent at a lot of things. "But tonight it'll be my pleasure."

"So how much of tonight was your idea?" you say as he offers you his elbow and you take it, as though you were going much further than up the stairs to the front door, and you were wearing something more precarious than your wingtips. Men's dress shoes. Comfortable. Sensible. Women's dress shoes? Unholy contraptions of painful terror (but boy hadn't Slick's gams looked piping hot tonight).

"The planning was mostly mine, but the _idea_ was about fifty-fifty." You both come to a halt in front of the door, and you sneak a look back at the car. Slick is pretending like he's not watching the two of you fiddlefaddle about on the stoop like two teenagers. He grins, a merciless shark's smile as he looks down at you. "You're an intriguing kinda lady, Jane. Really got our attention."

"Uh huh," you say dismissively, to make sure he knows that his sweet talking isn't working on you. It might be, but there's no reason to let him know that. You think it's to your benefit to see if you can keep Diamonds a little off-balance, now and then. He's far too smug sometimes. "And when are you taking the advice you gave your friend?"

"Mm? Oh, that." His teeth gleam again briefly in a smile. You've never seen him smile this much any other time you've seen him. Good to know he's finding this all amusing as heck. "Do I have your permission to kiss you, Jane? And after that," he twitches his head back at the car and its brooding occupant in a quick but meaningful gesture, "do we have permission to court you?"

You hum a thoughtful noise through your teeth, and then lean up a bit to get your hand on his collar, pull him down to your level. The hell if you're going to be the one on your tiptoes; besides, if his relationship with Slick is the way you think it is, he's used to bending. And Slick's even shorter than you.

"Let's see how the kissing goes, and I'll give you an answer on the other thing, hot shot."

He closes the distance between your lips, and kisses you like a man who knows what he's doing. One of your eyebrows arches, and you devote yourself to showing him that you know just what you're doing too. With Spades it was hot and heavy real fast, but Diamonds seems to like to take his time. A girl could get to appreciate the difference. Makes you think about just where _else_ that difference could extend, and what it could be like to have the deadly focus of both of them turned on you in bed. Or maybe somewhere else. But you're getting ahead of yourself.

And you're in the middle of a kiss that you really should be paying attention to.

Diamonds smells like the cigarillo he'd been smoking, sweet and heavy taste of ash on your tongue as his hand settles across your lower back. You curl your fingers around his tie, pulling at it to make sure he's the one bending down to you while you plant your feet square on the ground. It's definitely one of the better kisses you've had. You'd rate it in the top twenty at least; but then again, you've both still got your clothes on. Diamonds pulls back a little to break your liplock and rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathing a little heavily.

Oh lord, you've got all those stairs to climb before you can collapse. Between the two of them, they've definitely got a knack to put jelly where your knees should be. But considering the effect you think you had on them, you're considering it fair turn and turn about. 

"Evenin'."

You just nod a little as Droog steps back, gives you a nod then trudges back to the car. You stay on the front step for a moment more, watching as he gets in and then slams the door. Turning as you hear the motor start, you jab the key into the night-lock and open the door, not watching as they drive away. You trudge all the way up to your office, and unlock that with another key, stepping inside and undoing your tie. You take off your coat and hang it on the rack, hands going through the motions of getting yourself dressed down enough to sleep. Shoes off. Belt undone.

It's nothing more than a sort of placebo effect, but you'd swear you can still feel your lips tingling pleasantly.

Getting comfy on your couch and pulling the blanket over yourself that you keep in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, you look up at the water-stain on the ceiling that's always reminded you of a rabbit, and feel the disconsolate buzz of being all revved up and nowhere to go. Sleep, you tell yourself firmly and roll over, pressing your face to the back of the couch and letting out a sigh. Sleep, and think about all this in the morning.

You do sleep, and then you think about it in the morning. It doesn't really help; you've never been good at waiting for other people to do something. At least you have a case to work on, so you're not moping around like some forlorn Victorian maiden, awaiting word from her swain. Nope! No time for that kind of nonsense. You throw yourself right into your work.

It's the morning after that, that when you're going through the mail that's arrived that you notice the scent of cloves and ash. Opening up the envelope with a flick of your dagger-like letter opener, you unfold the paper inside with a snap. It might be. It might not be.

It is.

 _Dear Ms Crocker,_ the spidery letters scrawl across the page as your eyes race to follow them, _my fellow and I would dearly like to invite you to dinner_...down through a few more flowery phrases, and you wonder if Droog even let Slick see it before he signed it, because there's two signatures at the bottom but only one hand writing the letter. One looping DD joined with a diamond and a double set of Ss so deeply stabbed into the paper that the ink's made it tear. You read the letter through again, then put it to one side and pull your own set of stationary towards yourself.

You've never been a girl to back down from a challenge, and you like the shape of this one. You like it a lot.

_Dear Messrs. Droog and Slick, I would be delighted to accept your invitation..._


End file.
